


The Incident

by anonymousmadame2911



Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heartbreak, Rape, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 19:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20318188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmadame2911/pseuds/anonymousmadame2911
Summary: Are you feeling cathartic? This is the piece for you.FYI: Chris is NOT the rapist.





	The Incident

You stumbled into the house. The gun lay heavy in your bag. Blood and brain matter decorated your face. Shoes littered the hallway. You slid down the wall by the front door. 

“Babe…babe! Oh my God! Fuck. What the fuck?”

Chris was screaming. You weren’t sure who he was screaming at or why. 

“Do—don’t touch me.”

The words caught in your throat.

“I’m a…crime scene?”

“We have to call the police. Chris. We have to call the police,” Tom, Chris’s friend stated adamantly.

Your head was bowed down almost to the floor. You knew if they called the police that they would shoot you. They would shoot you in the back. What did it matter? You were on the brink of losing everything anyways. Chris grabbed your arms and shook you, desperate for some form of communication from you.

“What happened? What did you do?”

“I—uh—I went to my meeting and then he…uh…he uh raped me. He held a gun to my head, so I shot him.”

“What? You aren’t making any sense. You went to your meeting with Little Tony?”

“Yeah. He pulled a gun on me in his office.”

You slowly pulled the gun out of your bag. Chris rubbed his chin while Tom was on the verge of losing his shit. What did you care about Tom? He was always Chris’s annoying fuckwit friend.

“He held it to my head…threw me against the desk and he raped me.”

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.”

“Shut up Tom. Uh…baby. I think we need to get you to the hospital. Are you hurt? Did you break anything?”

The blood dripped down your temple. 

“Can you get me a change of clothes?” You squeezed out, attempting to sound calm. 

Your breath caught in your chest. The tears burned at the edges of your eyes. Nausea sat at the back of your throat. How did things get this far? You’d had a meeting at 7 pm with little Tony, the executive producer who had shown interest in developing and optioning your TV show about adults with physical and learning disabilities. You were so excited to talk about it with him. You had been pushing for this show for 5 years now. No one wanted to take a risk on it. They said it had too many themes going on. The staff of the program would be 95 % black and address issues of income inequality and short comings of the healthcare system. The clients of the program would be all different ethnicities with half living at home and half living in group homes. They would represent a number of disabilities from physical handicaps to Downs Syndrome to fragile X syndrome and thrombophilia. The show was based off of your own experiences working at an adult day program with people exactly like this. You’d entered your script into screenplay competitions only to be given low scores and poor feedback. You’d moved on and started working on your novels. Those met with better reception.  
You’d met Chris during your first book tour. He asked you to sign a copy of your book for his mom. You did. You assumed that would be the end of it. He came the next night and invited you out for drinks. You had an early flight and suggested a cup of coffee at the Starbucks up the street. You let him lead the conversation because you were sure he was after something. You hadn’t figured it out yet—movie rights to your book? your pussy? Another signed copy for his sisters maybe? Then, he asked for your number, to which you replied with a “sorry, what?” He had to repeat himself and you just got up walked back to your room. You were convinced it was a prank. He did that annoying Hollywood thing of reaching out to your agent. Your agent sent the message along to you. He sent flowers to you at your agent’s office, which really pissed you off. You told your agent to return them, but she said “you can’t return flowers. It doesn’t work like that.” She shouldn’t have accepted them in the first place.  
Life went on sedately, with occasional blips of Chris trying to contact you and you fully avoiding him. You finished your sophomore novel and it was well-received. You went on your 2nd book tour. You were excited that you could now call yourself a bona fide writer. You were actually making a living with writing. A small part of you still wanted to write scripts, and you did, in your free time. Your first book was sold to Universal Studios. Chris came to your signing in Boston. Because of course he did. You avoided all eye contact. Truthfully, you would have completely run away, but it was your signing. It might have been noticeable. At the end of the signing, he asked for another autograph. 

“For your mom?”

“One for her and one for me. Are we going out for drinks after this?”

“Yes. Of course, Chris. She’ll go out for drinks with you. Her signing doesn’t start until 8 pm tomorrow.”

Your agent had stepped in on your behalf and completely against your will. She had taken a shine to Chris and his persistence. You pursed your lips and sucked in air through your front teeth.

“Sure. Why not? Let’s give it a go.”

You could bone him. Look at it as a story to tell. Unfortunately, he had some dick. In fact, he had THE dick. It did rock your world and you weren’t inclined to just not have it a second or third or fourth time. That tongue too. You’d had the same effect on him too. You would have been embarrassed that the two of you were making out like high schoolers at the bar, but you just didn’t give a fuck. You had pulled him into a kiss after just three sips of wine. You didn’t want him using the “are you sure? You seem pretty drunk” line on you. You were sober and wanted to jump him. You dragged him back to your hotel room up the street. Thank God you had made the bed before leaving the room. The room looked decent. You’d had to kick him out temporarily so he could buy some condoms at the gas station up the street. Those would be effective, sure. He returned to a naked woman opening the door. 

“Wait. Don’t touch me. Wait. I’m getting naked too.”

You giggled at him as you helped him pull off his shirt and pants. You smacked his ass and pulled back the covers. He dropped the condoms on the side table next to your head. 

“God, you’re a difficult woman to get my hands on.”

“What?! Why are you still wearing your underwear? Stop groping me and get naked!”

“No. I wanna kiss you some more.”

He rubbed his 5 o’clock shadow across your stomach making you squeal and laugh. He kissed his way up your stomach to your breasts. He gently sucked one chocolate peak between his pink lips. You pushed yourself into his mouth, impatient for him. 

“Argh. Come on.”

“After all the waiting I had to do, now you can wait a little bit.”

“Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis. Seriously? You better put those condoms to good use. We got…how many? Three. We got three…three?! That’s it? You coulda bought more. Ugh. Well, you better put them to good use.”

“Three isn’t enough?”

“Uh. No. Listen…the last time I had sex was in 2016. So I need to make up for lost time. I’m sorry it has to be you, but I’m making up for 3 years of sex.”

“Oh fuck. You’re gonna kill me.”

You grabbed him and pulled him into a vicious kiss. He nibbled his way down your neck to your nipples. His stubble scraped against your skin and tickled you again. 

“Should I go and shave?”

“No. I think you should tickle me between my legs.”

The two of you snickered in the dark shadows of the room. He slowly worked his way around your body and you returned the favor. You thought having a long distance relationship with him would be difficult. It was surprisingly easy. He would sneak you onto his sets when you weren’t promoting your books. He gave you tips on your contract with Universal Studios, which really wasn’t your contract since all of the media rights were with the publishing house. After a year, you moved into his LA house. You met his friends. They were a mix of actors, musicians, producers, and childhood friends. That’s how you met Little Tony.  
Little Tony was a bloated white man who fancied himself a mobster. You saw through him like cellophane. He hated it and loved it at the same time. But, he was always trying to control you or tell you what to do in one way or another. You knew from the first time you met him that you had to keep your distance. But, he’d asked you about writing for TV and why didn’t you do that. You explained about your TV show and how no one wanted to make it. So he arranged for this meeting in his office. You had been sitting at his desk, waiting for him when he entered and locked the door. You went to unlock it and he dragged you away from it. You told him that he had to unlock the door and that you wanted to leave. He refused to let you leave. He dragged you by your forearm back to the desk. He dug through the middle drawer of his desk, vowing to show you who was boss and that you would like it. You scrabbled to the door again but he grabbed you and threw you back towards the desk like you were a rag doll. He pressed the gun to the back of your head and forced you stomach down on to the desktop. Your blood froze in your veins. You begged him to stop. You told him not to do this, that he didn’t need to do this. You heard the belt buckle clink and he shuffle of his pants as they fell to the floor. Every muscle was tense in your body as he forced himself into you. You disconnected from your body and your emotions. You lay cold and limp on his desk. He set his gun down on the desk to pull his pants up and you grabbed it. You shot him once through the head and once through the heart. The first time you ever held a gun and it was to kill a man. The blood splattered all over his desk and all over you. You threw up on the floor next to his dead body. You pulled your clothes back up and tried to arrange yourself. You scuttled over to the door on your hands and knees. You grabbed your bag, unlocked the door and stumbled out of his office. You slowly walked to the elevator, sure that at any moment the cops would come to arrest you. You made it to the stunning realization that no one was coming to rescue you. You were a minority. You were a woman. No one gives a shit about you. Just Chris. He had his reputation to think of, his film career. This would ruin everything that he’d built up. What could you do to save him?  
You went to the hospital. They took a rape kit. They took all of your clothes. They took hair samples, photos, urine, and blood. After hours of being at the hospital, the police came and took a report from you, Chris and Tom. After a full day of sitting in Kaiser Permanente, Chris drove you back to his house. You crawled into bed, mind set on the decision you had to make. You woke up early the next morning, threw a few things in a box, and left a post-it note telling him “It’s not you. It’s me.” You quietly left the house, locked the front door and left his keys in his front mailbox.


End file.
